241.6242  H 
Ei22j  i 


* 


SL^Laa 


Aat+M.  **r\  jtsdb^' 


/,  'f'<f 


(X  JlAM**rr% 

■*  (■•  JL  ^ 

■  -'  %>  *  ,> 

2»C ;  I  <M  S 
Outu  ^JUvC, 


V^*-i  na 


JESUS  WAS  IN  BERLIN 

AUGUST  1,  1914 


A  SERMON 

PREACHED  IN 

PLYMOUTH  CONGREGATIONAL  CHURCH 
Lawrence,  Kansas 
September  26,  1915 

BY 

Noble  Strong  Elderkin 


JUNE  1916 


"I  came  not  to  send  peace  but  a  sword.” 

Matthew  10:  3U. 


U, 


JESUS  WAS  IN  BERLIN 
AUGUST  1,  1914 


Berlin. 

The  first  of  day  of  August  nineteen  fourteen. 

Jesus  of  Nazareth  a  citizen  of  the  Fatherland. 

The  past  few  years  a  humble  carpenter  in  the 
city  of  Berlin. 

For  weeks  rumors  of  war  have  filled  the  air. 

Then  August  first  nineteen  fourteen. 

Suddenly— as  from  a  clear  sky,  'The  enemies  of 
the  Fatherland  are  at  the  gate!” 

At  the  gate— hideously  armed! 

Ready  to  despoil  and  murder! 

Ready  to  murder  and  destroy! 

There  is  only  one  thing  to  do.  There  are  not  two 
things  to  do.  There  is  only  one  thing  to  do. 

Jesus  does  that  one  thing. 

He  flings  aside  his  hammer  and  his  saw. 

Rushes  for  his  uniform.  His  soldier’s  uniform. 

Rushes  for  his  sword.  And  his  gun.  And  his 
bayonet.  And  his  pistol. 

The  next  moment  he  is  on  his  way  to  the  colors. 

Then  another  moment  and  he  is  on  his  way  to 
the  front. 

What  for? 

Why— to  repel  the  attacks  of  the  enemy.  The 
enemy  are  at  the  gates  of  the  Fatherland.  Bent  upon 
despoiling  the  Fatherland.  They  will  kill.  They  will 
murder. 


— l— 


And  before  they  kill  and  murder,  THEY  must  be 
killed  and  murdered. 

But  they  are  brother  men. 

Bosh! 

Who  said  Bosh? 

Why— Jesus. 

Such  monstrous  stupidity!  Brother  men! 

The  Fatherland  is  in  danger.  Its  very  life  is 
threatened.  Those  that  hate  it  are  at  the  gate.  Those 
that  would  cast  it  down  headlong  into  a  bottomless  pit 
are  at  the  gate. 

And  to  talk  brotherhood  at  such  a  time! 

Talk  brotherhood  when  the  enemies  of  the 
Fatherland  are  not  at  the  gate. 

He’s  off. 

On  the  way  to  the  front. 

That’s  Jesus  there  in  the  second  row. 

I  like  that  swing  of  his.  I  like  the  set  of  his  jaw. 
See  that  fist  tightened  at  his  side.  I  pity  the  man  that 
faces  his  gun. 

Through  Belgium. 

Into  France. 

Then  the  mighty  shout.  "On  to  Paris!” 

What’s  in  Paris? 

Why,  the  enemy.  The  enemy  that  must  be 
humbled. 

What  have  they  done? 

Done?  Why,  nothing.  But  they’re  the  enemy. 

Who  said  so? 

The  Kaiser. 

Does  he  know? 

Of  course  he  knows. 

Then  it’s  on  to  Paris. 

He  sweeps  along  with  the  conquering  host. 

Gayly. 


-2- 


Resolutely. 

Back  of  them— moans  and  groans. 

Back  of  them— the  rattle  of  death. 

Back  of  them— lakes  of  blood. 

Fields  stripped  of  their  crops. 

Villages  that  beamed  and  smiled  but  yesterday 
in  ruins.  In  smouldering  ruins. 

Everywhere  men  dead  and  dying.  Everywhere 
swords,  guns,  helmets,  cloaks,  battered  cannon,  writh¬ 
ing  horses. 

The  mire  choked  with  men.  With  dead  men. 

A  hollow  where  they  had  taken  refuge— piled 
with  them. 

Cowards!  to  have  sought  refuge. 

Why  not  stand  up  like  men  and  take  their 
medicine. 

The  way  he  did. 

Some  of  them— still  alive. 

Wriggling. 

Let  them  wriggle. 

On  to  Paris! 

He’s  in  the  first  row  now. 

Those  that  were  in  the  first  row  are  lying  back 
there  among  the  piles  of  dead. 

Brave  Jesus. 

An  iron  cross  upon  his  breast. 

None  braver  than  he. 

Then  the  Marne. 

He  had  been  such  a  pitiless  fighter  that  they 
placed  him  in  charge  of  a  machine  gun.  It  takes  a 
fiendish  fighter  to  man  a  machine  gun.  The  thing  is  so 
inhuman.  So  cruelly  inhuman. 

So  they  gave  him  a  machine  gun. 

Then  the  enemy  came. 


—3— 


Young  men  like  himself.  Strong.  Stalwart. 
Shoulder  to  shoulder.  A  solid  phalanx. 

Singing. 

"It’s  a  long,  long  way  to  Tipperary”? 

No. 

A  hymn. 

The  second  stanza  of  "Who  is  on  the  Lord’s 

Side?” 

You  could  hear  every  word. 

"Fierce  may  be  the  conflict, 

Strong  may  be  the  foe, 

But  the  King’s  own  army 
None  can  overthrow; 

Round  his  standard  ranging, 

Victory  is  secure; 

For  his  truth  unchanging 
Makes  the  triumph  sure. 

Joyfully  enlisting 
By  thy  grace  divine, 

WE  are  on  the  Lord’s  side, 

Savior  WE  are  thine.” 

I  guess  he  didn’t  hear  them. 

Savior! 

Then  the  pitiless  machine  gun. 

And  the  singing  ceased. 

The  steady  aim  of  the  Nazarene. 

Not  one  of  them  should  ever  sing  again. 

Then  another  line. 

And  another. 

Singing. 

Until  his  gun  belched  death  upon  them. 

Then  the  singing  ceased. 

He  had  stilled  their  song. 

He  told  me  afterward  in  Berlin  that  it  was  all  he 
could  do  to  turn  that  machine  gun  on  those  fine  young 


-4— 


fellows  as  they  came  singing  up  the  hill. 

I  wish  now  he  had  not  told  me  this.  I  did  not 
like  his  squeamishness.  These  men  were  of  the  enemy. 
They  got  what  they  deserved.  The  enemies  of  the 
Fatherland  deserve  what  these  men  got. 

It  is  just  as  well  that  he  say  nothing  about  this  to 
anyone  else. 

They’d  take  his  iron  cross  away  from  him. 

They  don’t  want  the  sniffling  kind  around. 

It  was  all  he  could  do  to  turn  the  murderous  in¬ 
struments  upon  those  young  men— singing  as  they  came! 

But  he  did. 

He  did  his  duty. 

Like  a  man. 

Jesus  the  patriot. 

The  gallant  patriot. 

The  darling  of  the  empire. 

The  pitiless  fighter. 

Bravest  of  the  brave. 

They  will  build  him  a  monument  in  the  park. 
They  will  carve  his  name  upon  it. 

JESUS 

AFORETIME  OF  NAZARETH 
PERFECT  MASTER  OF  THE  SWORD 
HE  CAME  NOT  TO  BRING  PEACE  BUT  A  SWORD 
AND  GOD  ALMIGHTY  HATH  BLESSED 

THE  SWORD  HE  BROUGHT 

******** 

London. 

The  fourth  day  of  August  nineteen  fourteen. 

Jesus  of  Nazareth  a  British  subject. 

These  past  few  years  a  humble  carpenter  in  the 
city  of  London. 


—5— 


For  weeks  rumors  of  war  had  filled  the  air. 

Then  August  fourth  nineteen  fourteen. 

Suddenly  as  from  a  clear  sky,  "Belgium  is  being 
despoiled.  The  German  army  is  on  Belgian  soil.,, 

Hideously  armed. 

Ready  to  murder  and  destroy. 

There  is  only  one  thing  to  do.  There  are  not  two 
things  to  do.  There  is  only  one  thing  to  do. 

Jesus  does  that  one  thing. 

He  flings  aside  his  hammer  and  his  saw. 

Rushes  for  his  uniform.  His  soldier’s  uniform. 

Rushes  for  his  sword.  And  his  gun.  And  his 
bayonet.  And  his  pistol. 

The  next  moment  he  is  on  his  way  to  the  colors. 

Then  in  another  moment  he  is  on  his  way  to  the 

front. 

What  for? 

Why,  to  repel  the  attacks  of  the  enemy.  The 
enemy  are  despoiling  poor  helpless  Belgium. 

But  what’s  the  use  of  getting  excited  over  such 
a  matter? 

Only  yesterday  you  British  were  despoiling  poor 
helpless  diamond-blessed  South  Africa. 

The  Germans  are  merely  doing  what  you  are 
given  to  doing. 

But  he  brushes  me  aside. 

He  has  no  time  to  quibble  about  the  past. 

The  past  is  past. 

But  these  Germans  are  brother  men. 

Jesus,  they  are  brother  men. 

Bosh! 

This  is  no  time  to  smirk  about  brother  men. 

Belgium  is  being  despoiled. 

But  why  didn’t  you  think  about  brother  men  when 


-6— 


you  were  despoiling  poor  helpless  diamond-blessed 
South  Africa? 

He  is  all  of  a  rage  now. 

So  he’s  off. 

He  is  on  his  way  to  the  front. 

That’s  Jesus  there  in  the  second  row. 

I  like  that  stride  of  his.  That  shows  he  means 
business.  That  set  jaw.  Those  clenched  teeth.  The 
fist  tightened  at  his  side. 

Across  the  channel. 

Into  France. 

Northward. 

Northward? 

What  for? 

Why,  to  repel  the  enemy. 

What  have  they  done? 

Why,  they  are  the  enemy. 

Who  said  so? 

King  George. 

Does  he  know? 

Of  course  he  knows. 

Northward. 

Then  the  desperate  retreat  toward  Paris. 

In  the  midst  of  the  desolation  he  stood.  Head 
erect.  Still  proud.  Proud  in  defeat.  Proud  in  flight. 

The  glorious  field  back  yonder.  That’s  the  way 
the  papers  spoke  of  it.  The  glorious  field.  Eight  days 
have  passed  since  the  battle  and  there  are  700  wounded 
still  on  the  field.  Still  shrieking.  Still  moaning.  No 
one  to  help  them.  Sixty  of  them  huddled  in  one  tum¬ 
ble-down  shack.  Eight  days  have  passed.  Wounds 
that  were  severe  have  now  become  hopeless.  Every¬ 
where  filth.  Filth  and  blood. 

He  saw  it  all  as  his  regiment  swept  over  the  field 
toward  Paris. 


-7- 


It  was  some  of  his  work.  Some  of  his  own  work. 

Do  you  wonder  that  he  exulted? 

These  were  Germans. 

The  enemy. 

The  hated  enemy. 

Back  toward  Paris! 

One  night  I  saw  him  steal  out  to  a  point  that  over¬ 
looked  the  enemy’s  camp.  Devout  man  that  he  was,  he 
had  gone  out  to  pray.  I  heard  him.  Heard  every  word. 
He  prayed  for  victory.  With  all  his  soul  he  prayed  for 
victory. 

"Oh  God,  help  us  to  tear  the  soldiers  of  the  foe  to 
bloody  shreds  with  our  shells.  Help  us  to  cover  their 
smiling  fields  with  the  pale  forms  of  their  patriot  dead. 
Help  us  to  lay  waste  their  humble  homes  with  a  hurri¬ 
cane  of  fire.  Help  us  to  wring  the  hearts  of  their  un¬ 
offending  widows  with  unavailing  grief.  Blast  their 
homes.  Blight  their  lives.  Water  their  way  with  their 
tears.  Drench  them  with  blood.” 

I  liked  his  way  of  putting  it.  That  wasn’t  the  way 
the  priests  prayed.  They  had  a  soft  and  mushy  way  of 
praying  for  these  very  things.  They  too  prayed  for 
victory.  They  wanted  these  same  things  done.  They 
wanted  God  to  do  them.  But  they  didn’t  like  to  say  it 
out  loud.  Their  prayers  sounded  better.  That  was  all. 
They  meant  the  same  thing.  They  prayed  for  victory 
upon  their  arms. 

That’s  what  victory  means  to  the  side  that  loses. 

Then  the  Marne. 

Those  terrible  days  at  the  Marne. 

He  had  earned  the  right  to  a  machine  gun. 

So  they  gave  him  one. 

Then  the  enemy  came. 

Young  men  like  himself.  In  the  full  pride  of  their 


-8- 


wholesome  German  youth.  Strong.  Stalwart.  Shoul¬ 
der  to  shoulder.  A  solid  phalanx. 

Singing. 

"Deutschland  uber  alles”? 

No.  A  hymn. 

The  second  stanza  of  Ein'  Feste  Burg: 

"Did  we  in  our  own  strength  confide, 

Our  striving  would  be  losing; 

Were  not  the  right  man  on  our  side, 

The  man  of  God’s  own  choosing. 

Dost  ask  who  that  may  be? 

Christ  Jesus  it  is  he; 

Lord  Sabaoth  is  his  name, 

From  age  to  age  the  same, 

And  he  must  win  the  battle.” 

They  were  singing  about  him. 

As  if  he  were  on  their  side. 

He  was  no  German. 

What  had  their  priests  been  telling  them? 

He  was  not  on  their  side.  Fighting  for  them. 

He  was  on  the  other  side.  He  was  against  them. 
He  was  a  Britisher. 

Then  the  pitiless  machine  gun. 

And  their  singing  ceased. 

The  perfect  aim  of  the  Nazarene. 

Not  one  of  them  should  ever  sing  again. 

Then  another  line. 

And  another. 

Singing. 

Until  his  gun  belched  death  upon  them. 

Then  their  singing  ceased. 

HE  had  stilled  their  song. 

But  he  told  me  afterward  in  London  that  it  was 
all  he  could  do  to  turn  that  death-flinging  gun  upon  those 


—9— 


fine  young  fellows  as  they  came  singing  up  the  hill. 

But  in  that  moment  he  remembered.  These  men 
were  enemies.  He  had  been  ordered  to  kill  them.  The 
king  had  ordered  him  to  kill  them.  His  king. 

God? 

No,  no.  George.  George  the  fifth.  By  the  grace 
of  God.  His  noble  and  gracious  king. 

This  was  no  place  for  thought  of  the  other  man. 
Let  him  drop  in  his  tracks  and  rot.  What  right  had  he 
to  be  an  enemy  of  the  great  and  good  King  George? 

It  was  all  he  could  do! 

Think  of  such  piffle.  And  from  a  warrior  like 
Jesus.  A  trained  and  trusted  warrior. 

What  if  they  should  all  talk  that  way? 

But  he  caught  himself  before  it  was  too  late. 

He  turned  the  beastly  gun  upon  them. 

He  did  his  duty. 

Like  a  man. 

Jesus  the  patriot. 

Jesus  the  gallant  patriot. 

The  Queen’s  own. 

The  King’s  well  beloved. 

The  pitiless. 

There  will  be  a  tablet  to  him  in  Westminster. 
His  name  will  be  carved  upon  it, 

JESUS 

AFORETIME  OF  NAZARETH 
PERFECT  MASTER  OF  THE  SWORD 
HE  CAME  NOT  TO  BRING  PEACE  BUT  A  SWORD 
AND  GOD  ALMIGHTY  HATH  BLESSED 
THE  SWORD  HE  BROUGHT 


-10— 


Well,  what’s  the  matter? 

It  isn’t  true. 

What  isn’t  true? 

The  picture. 

You  haven’t  played  fair  with  Jesus. 

You  have  misrepresented  him. 

Jesus  wouldn’t  do  these  things. 

First  of  all  he  wouldn’t  go  to  war. 

He  wouldn’t  kill  his  brother  men.  No  matter 
who  ordered  him  to  kill  them. 

He  wouldn’t  glory  in  the  moans  and  groans  of 
brother  men.  In  the  rattle  of  death.  In  far  stretching 
lakes  of  blood.  In  ruined  villages.  In  huge  piles  of 
dead. 

He  wouldn’t  turn  a  fiendish  machine  gun  upon 
his  brother  men.  His  singing  brother  men.  No  matter 
who  ordered  him  to. 

He  wouldn’t  pray  that  God  would  tear  the  enemy 
to  bloody  shreds  with  his  shrapnel.  That  God  would 
lay  waste  their  humble  homes  with  a  hurricane  of  fire. 
That  God  would  wring  the  hearts  of  their  unoffending 
widows  with  grief  that  availed  nothing  at  all. 

Nonsense. 

You  don’t  know  him. 

You  think  he  came  to  bring  peace. 

He  didn’t. 

He  came  to  bring  a  sword. 


-11— 


J 


PRINTED  BY 

BULLOCK  PRINTING  COMPANY 
LAWRENCE,  KANSAS 


